Authors: Ann Lawrence
“Theft?” He held out his hand as if offering it for
punishment. “From branding to hanging.”
Her face paled. “Are any found innocent and released?”
“Few.” If possible, her face washed even whiter.
Was there any chance Simon was innocent? He might assure her
he would allow her to remain as Felice’s nurse, but would she want to stay if
Simon was proved a thief? There was shame in such an association.
Where would she go? What should he do about Felice in such
circumstances? In his mind’s eye, he saw Cristina with the child in arms. It
was a wicked coil.
Her hand trembled as she raised it and briefly touched her
throat. “What of Lady Nona’s wishes regarding Felice?”
“She will want what I want.”
Cristina shook her head. “She will want, as all good wives
do, to direct a daughter. That would include choosing a nurse.”
“Felice is content with you.”
“And if Lady Nona is not?”
“Is she unkind to you?”
“Oh, nay, my lord. She’s very kind.”
“Then you have naught to fear.” In that moment he realized
he was lying. Marion had once sent away a kitchen wench for teasing their son
Adrian. Was that what Cristina thought, but would not say? That Nona might be
jealous of her? That Nona might sense there was something between them? He knew
well what it was to lie in a lover’s arms and wonder if it was someone else who
filled the lover’s mind.
He could treat neither Nona nor Cristina in such a way.
Cristina went to the window where he had stood. Below, the
river moved lazily in the sunlight, small sparkles lighting its surface. She
breathed in deeply. He wanted to go to her and wrap his arms around her waist
and offer her some strength for what was to come. But he stayed where he was.
“You must have no fear for your position here with Felice.”
He could do nothing about her fears for Simon. They were an ugly truth she must
face on her own.
“I do fear for my position—now. Yesterday you did not trust
me. Today you do. On the morrow you may not again.” She turned from the view
and met his gaze as boldly as a man might. “You have posted a sentry outside
Felice’s chamber.”
“The sentry is not to keep you in, but to keep others out.”
She paced as he had, her skirts swaying with every step, her
hair swinging across her back. “You must trust me.”
“How does one trust another?” he asked, his mind leaping to
Luke and Penne.
“Trust the history you have with a person.”
“And if we have no history?” She moved close to him. Her
skin was smooth and downy. He wanted to skim his fingers across her cheek, his
thumb across her lips.
Her eyes snapped fire. “Then you must make a leap of faith.
You cannot believe me to be leaving by the postern gate one moment, then not
the next. You cannot have it both ways, my lord. I am completely confused!”
“Aye,” he said softly. “You are right. I cannot have it both
ways.” He realized that in the moment the king had questioned him about her, in
that moment when he had defended her, he had decided to believe her story. “Let
us say I’ve had a few hours to consider your tale and find it more to my liking
now. I ask that you trust me as well.”
She knotted her fingers together. “‘Tis difficult. I do not
know what you are thinking.”
“It is better for both of us that you do not.”
Durand locked the room of books and led Cristina back to the
hall. Lady Nona sat by King John, Felice on her lap. The child fussed, arching
her back and struggling in the lady’s arms.
“Mayhap the child would like her nurse,” Durand said. Before
he could stop himself, he had pulled the babe from Nona’s lap.
“Oh, aye. I am useless to a nursing babe,” Nona said with a
laugh. “She is surely hungry.”
The babe fell silent in his arms. He stared down at the soft
blue eyes and smooth cheeks. Her gown was stitched with delicate flowers, her
wrap likewise embroidered with the bounty of summer. She stared up at him and
then lifted a tiny hand. Her fingers explored the torque at his neck, then
gripped it with surprising force. She tugged as if to pull the torque into her
mouth.
“She will have it off if you let her,” Nona said.
The king smiled. “The child knows to reach for the symbols
of power. She tried to eat our ring, did she not, Isabelle?”
“Aye, sire,” the queen answered indulgently.
Cristina stood silently by. Durand knew he should hand the
child away, but somehow he did not wish to set her down. Gently he plucked her
fingers from the torque. How small and delicate the bones of her hand felt.
Fragile.
“You’ll drop her,” the queen said, and reached over to
settle his hand behind the child’s head, showing him how to hold her more
securely in the crook of his arm.
Nona and the queen hovered close by, each making small
adjustments to Felice’s long skirts and her wraps.
“She’ll need a worthy alliance,” Isabelle said to John.
“The Count of Poitou’s nephew would do,” Nona said.
“Perfect! We approve,” the king said with a grin. “The
count’s future is as uncertain as any old man’s, so she might be a countess
before her teeth were in.”
Durand stepped away. The Count of Poitou was a very high
match, but he knew the nephew. He lacked spirit. “Cristina, what do you think
of the match?”
“I don’t know the count, my lord,” she said. She moved to
the end of the table where the king sat. Durand didn’t offer her the child; nor
did she reach out to take her. “You must do what you believe best for her.”
The child reached for his torque again and he shifted her to
put his throat out of her reach. She opened her mouth. A high, keening shriek
issued forth.
“She wants the gold,” declared the queen.
“She’s hungry,” Cristina said softly so only he could hear.
Their fingers skimmed each other as she took the babe from his arms. “May I go,
my lord?”
He nodded and forced himself not to watch her progress
across the hall to the tower steps.
Nona touched his sleeve. “When you hang her husband she will
need to leave,” she said gently.
“He’s not yet judged, my lady.”
Lady Sabina tapped his arm with her fingertip. “Her
husband’s a thief. One has only to look upon his handsome face to know he’s
filled with guile. Do you not fear for your daughter’s welfare in that woman’s
care?”
Durand shook his head. King John was paying far too much
attention to the conversation. “I would fear for Felice’s welfare if Cristina
were not seeing to her care.”
One of the king’s knights, Roger Godshall, who had escorted
Sabina to the table, moved closer. He was a dark, stocky man garbed in a fine
but careless way.
“What gossip have I missed?” he asked the company in
general.
“We discuss the future of Mistress le Gros should her
husband be found to be a thief,” the queen said.
“She can earn her way on her back,” Godshall said, wagging
his eyebrows.
“Be civil,” Durand said sharply.
“She’s not pretty enough for such sport,” Sabina said
abruptly, hooking Godshall’s arm and stroking his hand.
John called for their attention. “Enough of children. Let us
attend to the matter at hand. Our men are ready at Dartmouth. We but await
William Marshall’s attendance and a favorable wind.”
“If Marshall is not successful, should we not consider one
more attempt to make peace with Philip?” Gilles d’Argent asked. “He has the
support of Gervase of Gascony and Ellis of Toulouse. I know both men well and
would willingly go in hopes they may be persuaded to some peace.”
“They will not listen.” John’s face suffused a deep red as
he faced the older man.
Roger Godshall rose and jammed his hands on his hips. “You
do not go with us, so who are you to speak at all, d’Argent?”
Nicholas d’Argent shot to his feet. “How dare you. Draw your
sword, Godshall.”
In the instant before blood could be shed, Durand and Gilles
stepped between the two men. It was the king, however, who ended the matter.
“D’Argent has no need to go. He is creaking with age, and
his kind donation to my cause will yield forty fit men in his place. We know he
loves us and will seek to support us in all ways. Be seated, you two whelps.”
Nicholas and Roger subsided to their seats, but their hands
remained on their dagger hilts. Durand thought it would be best if they could
leave and shed some Frenchman’s blood, or soon they’d be shedding that of each
other.
He ventured to further restore some semblance of order to
the table. “I’d go with you to speak with Philip or his agents, d’Argent, if
you think the scheme would work,” Durand said. Gilles and he had made this same
suggestion over and over to the king with the same results. John wanted war.
Roger Godshall spoke. “Is not your mother with Bazin in
Paris, de Marle?”
Silence fell around the table. Durand had expected this
event. The fists on dagger hilts remained in place.
Guy Wallingford, a baron with a son of Adrian’s age also
fostered with de Warre, spoke up, “What does it matter with whom de Marle’s
mother aligns herself? She has no retainers, and Bazin’s sword rusts from a
decade of disuse.”
Laughter ran about the table; even John smiled. Several
hands slid from daggers to lift their goblets. Durand gave a signal to the
serving boy, who quickly rounded the table, filling the cups again.
Durand drank deeply of his wine as if unconcerned. “My
mother is concerned with gems and sweetmeats. I doubt she knows what day ‘tis.”
“Still,” King John said, “Bazin supported Philip’s father.
He may still wield some influence. Can you attest to your mother’s loyalty?”
“My mother has never been loyal to anyone.”
“But she makes a worthy hostage.”
“Aye,” Durand said. “And I’m honor-bound to do what I may to
protect her, but you may be assured you have my loyalty and that of my men as
well. If Philip takes my mother hostage, he will demand a ransom. I’m sure
there’s a price we can agree upon.” He also knew he did not have the coin to
pay it.
The conversation turned to swords and who best wielded them.
When the discussion deteriorated to lewd comments from the younger men, Durand
made an escape to the stable.
There, Joseph sat with William, one of his men-at-arms,
pitting Marauder’s many fine qualities against that of other warhorses.
“Joseph? You are back rather quickly,” Durand said,
frowning.
“Aye, my lord,” Joseph said, rising.
“Where’s our prisoner then?”
“The merchant put up no fight, but his horse went lame and I
had to hire a cart. ‘Twould have been torture to drag along at that pace. He’ll
be a few hours yet.”
“I have another journey for you.” Durand unhooked his purse.
“Nay. My rump is sore tested as it is, my lord.” But he took
the purse and hefted it readily enough.
“Bring Father Laurentius here from the abbey.”
“As you wish,” Joseph said. “But what need have we for
ecclesiastic lawyers?”
“‘Tis Simon who may feel the need. And William.” Durand
turned to Joseph’s companion. “I have an errand in the village, a bit of quiet
searching for you to do.”
* * * * *
At dusk, when the party bringing Simon back to Ravenswood
had not yet arrived, Durand rode out to meet it. At the fingerpost, he saw a
cart and cavalcade of men about a league off. He allowed his mare to graze as
he waited for them.
When the carts drew near, he nudged the horse into a lazy
walk and then halted in the center of the roadbed.
Simon sat in the rear of the cart, his hands and feet bound.
Never had he looked so disheveled or so arrogantly self-righteous. As the cart
drew to a halt, Simon struggled to his knees. “Lord Durand, thank God! I’ve
tried to convince these simpletons they’ve made a grievous mistake.”
Durand patted his horse’s neck and then spread his gloved
hand on his thigh. “Have they made a mistake?”
“Aye. I shall see them punished, my lord.” Simon raised his
hands as if Durand might step down and loose his bonds.
“Can you read, Simon?” Durand asked.
“My lord?” Simon cocked his head.
“Can you read? A simple enough question.”
Simon sat back on his haunches and dropped his hands to his
lap. “Aye. I read. Latin, English, French, a bit of the Northern tongues. One
needs such skills if one is to trade above the common laborer.”
“Ah. I see. Then read that fingerpost.” He swept a hand out
to the tall wooden pillar at the crossroads.
Red suffused Simon’s face. He said nothing.
Durand lifted his gloved hand to the cavalcade and led it
back to the castle. As they approached, full dark fell. Every arrow slit, every
window gleamed with torchlight. The moon hung over the towers, painting them
silver. The sounds of revelry floated on the wind: music, song, cries of
laughter. Yet Durand felt no desire to take part in any of it.
He wanted only to go to her, take her in his arms, and
assure her all would be well. But he could not. He must imprison her husband
and on the morrow may have to condemn him to some punishment that would surely
be just as great a punishment to her.
Durand searched for Cristina as soon as Simon was settled.
She perched on a stool in Oriel’s chamber, spooning something dried into little
pouches. The rich scent of apple wood filled the air. Oriel and Felice lay on
the bed, the babe on her back, arms and legs outspread like a fat pup basking
in the sun.
“Can you watch the babe?” he asked.
Oriel smiled. “Felice and I shall rest here quite well. Her
belly’s full is it not, Cristina?”
Cristina nodded. He noticed her hands trembled. She knew why
he had come.
Before he rose, he lifted Oriel’s hand and kissed her
fingers. “You are contented here?” he asked. “You will remain if our efforts in
Normandy fail?”
“Penne will decide. He says he’s young enough to make his
fortune again.”
“As are we all, I suppose. But you know you are both welcome
to live here always?”
“Nona will not need another wife lying about, confusing
things.” Oriel shook her head.
“I am not yet wed,” he said, but with little heat. He would
wed the lady for his sons. It was the only reason to wed—land and power. The
other—what Penne and Oriel shared—it had caused him naught but needless pain.
He wanted none of it.
“Go.” Oriel shooed him with her hand like a fly annoying
her. “Go.”
He went to Cristina and held out his hand. “Cristina. Simon
has arrived.”
She rose but did not take his hand. “Will you take me to
him?” she asked. Her voice was barely audible, but her head was high and her
gaze did not evade his.
“Aye. Follow me.”
The hall was filled with men. Very few women chose to linger
there during the evening revelries. The conversation was coarse, the manners
coarser. Roger Godshall sang with several men. The ribald ditty painted a blush
on Cristina’s cheeks.
With a hand at her elbow, he led her through the throng to
the steps leading to the storerooms and dungeon below Ravenswood’s great hall.
* * * * *
The dank scent of the cell in which Simon sat reminded
Cristina all too well of her brief sojourn there. The old man who unlocked
Simon’s door asked her in whispered tones if she was sure she wanted to visit
such a space. She assured him she did, and without further argument or a glance
at Lord Durand, she stepped inside. The sound of the key in the lock made her
stomach lurch.
“Do you know why I’m here?” Simon’s voice trembled.
“There is some question that you took Lord Durand’s
Aelfric.”
“Some question? He accused me of stealing it!” Simon fell to
his knees before her and buried his face in her skirt.
She stood there without touching him for but a moment, then
settled her hands on his head. His body shook with sobs, and her own eyes
filled. She would not weep.
“Simon, come; you must rise. ‘Tis a damp chamber, and you
will take ill.”
He flung himself away from her. “What matter if I am ill?
He
will hang me! Who cares if a man coughs on his way to his death?”
“You’ve not been condemned yet, Simon. Take heart.”
“
He
will see to it, make no mistake. He will find a
way to kill me!”
“Lord Durand will be fair.” She paced the small cell, seeing
the loss of her husband’s fastidious nature in the crumpled blankets tossed on
the floor.
“Fair? You jest.” Simon grabbed her arm. His fingers bit
deeply into her flesh. “He has no interest in fairness. He’ll hear what he
wants, believe what he wants. He’s controlled by his brother.”
“Luke?” Shocked, she stared at Simon’s face and the
contorted anger she saw there.
“Aye, Luke. How easily his name comes to your lips, sweet
wife. Think you Lord Durand will care what becomes of me if it frees you to his
brother’s attentions.”
“What?” She could barely say the word. “Y-you blame me for
this?” She jerked from his grasp. “You’re mad!
Sir
Luke cares nothing
for me. I’ve sworn this to you already. He was not taking liberties! He but
touched me with concern.” Involuntarily her hand went to her cheek. “You were
in error before and err still!”
“He lusts after you.” Simon made a grab for her arm, and she
stepped quickly out of his reach.
“Let me understand. Because Sir Luke touched me once, you
think that Lord Durand and he conspired to place you here so Luke might have
me? What madness.”
“Who else could take a book from a lord but another lord?
You had no access; I had no access. I’m accused because I’m nothing to them and
Luke wants you in his bed. You’ll be on your back, your legs spread for him
within an hour of my death, whether you want it or not!” He fell again to his
knees and clutched her skirts. “Save me, please. Save me.”
The sudden change from accusing and shouting to begging
froze her in place. “I don’t know what to say to you! You weave a tale of
nonsense.”
He imprisoned her about the knees. “I do not. You hide from
the truth. A noble took the book. A noble, I tell you.”
She sank to her knees before him and cupped his face. “Look
at me, Simon.” He lifted his grime-stained face, streaked with tears, to hers.
“I have never done aught to be ashamed of with Sir Luke. He has never touched
me with lust.”
Thank the Blessed Mother Simon did not accuse her of
wrongdoing with Lord Durand. Her stomach churned.
“I’m afraid,” he whispered.
She embraced him. “Aye. So am I. Now tell me the truth. Was
the dead boy Hugh?”
“Nay. I don’t know that boy.”
She leaned forward. “Tell me the truth.”
“‘Tis the truth.” But his eyes slid away.
“Then answer me this. Why did you not go to Winchester to
fetch him?”
Simon covered her hands with his. “They will take my hand,
or hang me, brand me.” A shudder ran through his body as he turned his face and
kissed her palm. “You’ll have to care for me like a babe. I cannot bear it! Go
to Sir Luke. If he wants you, he’ll bargain with you.”
“Answer me, Simon.” She would not be deflected. “You owe me
honesty.”
This time it was he who jerked away from her. He stood up,
towering over her. “I owe you honesty? You who made this coil for me? You who
did not guard your virtue and allowed a man to embrace you before your own
husband? You who upset Aldwin with your trespass on his work—”
A flash of anger, so intense it burned through her body,
forced her to her feet. “Enough! I’ll hear no more.” She went to the door.
Simon was on her in an instant, his hands on either side of her, pinning her
with his body to the stout wooden portal.
“You will listen, wife. You have caused this. You must undo
it. Beg your lover to release me, if he be one, or beg your kind Luke to aid
you as a friend if he be not.”
His warm breath heated her cheek. He held her still.
“You’re wrong, Simon, so very, very wrong.”
He ran his hands from her shoulders to her hips. “Is he your
lover? Does he want me dead?”
She managed to lift a hand to bang the heel of her palm on
the door. A call from the guard made Simon push away from her.
“Beseech Sir Luke to release me, Cristina. You must. You are
tied to me unto death.”
The guard opened the door and she almost fell into his arms.
Half-blind with confusion and pain, she stumbled to the upper reaches of the
keep. Unsure what to do, where to go, she hastened to Lady Oriel’s chamber. She
lifted Felice to her shoulder, grabbed her basket, and fled to the garden.
Moonlight washed the paths bright white. Each pebble seemed
to sparkle like a gem as she set down the heavy basket. Soundlessly she walked
around and around the plants, breathing the soothing scents, listening to the
night sounds—not those of the men still at revelry within the bailey, but those
of leaves dancing with one another in the breezes.
Her anger over Simon’s accusations subsided with the simple
act of walking. He feared for his life. He concocted tales to suit what he saw.
And Sir Luke had held her shoulders with great familiarity. And her heart was
traitorous—not with Sir Luke, but with Lord Durand.
Her heart was as traitorous as any adulteress’s could be.
Finally she sought a bench and opened her gown. Felice
nursed in the slow, lazy way of a child half-asleep. Her time with the babe
would be short—a day or two until Simon was punished.
“Did Simon take the book, Felice?” she asked the babe. “I do
not know what to believe.” She hugged the child and breathed in the sweet,
milky scent of her. “He’s right that few would have access to the Aelfric
unless they were nobles. But what of the many women who visit Luke? Have they
not access? Might they not know what lies in the coffers?”
Felice fell asleep, but Cristina continued to talk to her as
if she understood. “The boy is Hugh. I know that in my heart, too.” Simon had
not answered her question but returned to his accusations, and in that moment
she had known he avoided the issue because it kept the lie from his lips.
She became aware the moon no longer filled the garden with
light. The moon began to sink beneath the garden wall. Carefully she made her
way along the paths to the gate. She locked it securely and knew what she must
do.
Once in the keep, she saw it filled with many of the king’s
men. She did not see Lord Durand, but did see Sir Luke in the gallery. With
quick steps, lest her courage fail her, she went up to him.
Luke leaned against the gallery rail, his arms crossed over
his chest. He wore a black tunic trimmed in gold thread. Black did not become
him as it did his brother. Nay, black was Durand’s color. Black as the secret
night. She shook off the errant thoughts. “Do you know where I might find Lord
Durand?”
“Mayhap, I do. What need have you for him?” Luke asked with
a frown.
She sighed and looked away across the many gathered below.
Lord Durand was not there. She could no longer avoid what must be done. “I want
to speak to him about Simon.” Could she beg Lord Durand for mercy?
Without another word, Luke led her to the counting room,
then stepped back. “Are you sure you wish to see him?”
In answer, she shifted the heavy basket to her left arm and
tapped lightly on the door.
“Enter,” Lord Durand called.
She hesitated at his sharp tone, but Luke gave her a small
push as he lifted the latch.
No candle lit the chamber. Only the dying embers of the
hearth told her he sat at the long table. His face was in deep shadow,
concealing his expression. She sank into a deep curtsey and tried to stem the
thunder of her heart. “My lord. I beg of you a few words.” Luke remained behind
her.
“Wait.” He rose and went to the hearth, where he touched a
small stick to the coals and then to the wick of a thick candle.
He wore a long gray tunic trimmed in scarlet over a white
linen shirt. Laced high at his throat, the shirt almost concealed his torque,
but still she saw the gleam of the gold as he moved. How powerful he looked,
forbidding, stern—a judge, not a lover.
“How may I serve you?” His voice was gentle.
She placed the basket on the floor and lifted Felice to her
shoulder. With a deep breath, she knelt before him. “I beg of you, my lord.
Release my husband. He did not steal the Aelfric. He had no need. I could have
given it to him so easily, had he coveted it. I believe the boy stole the book
after hearing Simon speak of it. The boy is dead, my lord. What would it serve to
punish the father?”
Luke made to speak, but Durand lifted a hand and silenced
him. This was between himself and Cristina.
He went to where she knelt. The candle shone on her dark
hair. Lightly he touched her head. “Don’t beg, Cristina. It ill becomes you.”
He would hurt her. He knew it as he knew his own name. For her to beg for Simon
bespoke an affection he did not understand. The man abused her, yet she
defended him. Would Marion have done so much for him?
“I must beg, my lord,” she whispered. “He’s my husband and I
owe him my loyalty.”
He let his fingertips wander down her satiny cheek to her
chin. He tipped her face up. What a sweet face she had. Gentle, trusting.
“One must never put too deep a trust in another. One is
always hurt by blind faith,” he said softly. He took her hand and placed in it
the bishop’s rings. “These were found hidden beneath Simon’s pallet, secreted
under a loose floorboard. The boy did not steal the book.” Gently he folded her
fist about the cold metal and waited.
Her hand trembled in his. “Nay,” she whispered.
“Aye.”
She ripped her hand from his and opened her fingers to stare
at the jeweled rings. With a soft moan, she placed them on the floor.
Staggering a bit, she rose. He put out a hand to her, but she shook her head.
Her lip trembled. She thrust the child into Luke’s arms, lifted the latch, and
disappeared.